


Maybe in another Earth

by iriswesttt



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 20:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6092875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswesttt/pseuds/iriswesttt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on Earth 2 Westallen. Each chapter is a drabble on its own. Mostly reaction fics to "Welcome to Earth 2" and "Escape from Earth 2".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Barry from Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> rated M for the third chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written after "Welcome to Earth 2"

When Dr. Harry Wells freed Barry from his handcuff and him and some guy who introduced himself as Cisco bombarded him with what had happened that night all Barry managed to focus on was that Iris’ dad had died and she was certainly and absolutely devastated, and that some asshole had decided that he should be the one with Iris instead of her husband. He found it to be a very enlightening experience this one: Barry learned he was not above murder after all, he was going to kill this person, surely. But first he needed to see his wife;

“Look, I don’t give a fuck about your friend or your kidnaped daughter, quite honestly what you did to me was a lot like kidnaping in case you haven’t noticed, all I want right now is to talk with my wife.”

It was Cisco who answered him. He was the one who truly seemed apologetically at the moment;

“I already called her and told her everything. She’s coming over.”

Dr. Wells looked at Cisco, reflecting the same surprise Barry was feeling, and Cisco raised his shoulders in answer;

“She’s scary, but if there’s anyone who can help us right now it’s her, even if she only wants to find Barry to kick his ass. Our Barry’s ass I mean, not your ass, unless you guys are into that kind of stuff, cause then I’m like not judging or anything cause she’s like tiny, but dude, I don’t doubt she could whip anyone if she put her mind into it — if she’s into that — cause she — I don’t —”

He shut up under Wells’ stern gaze (funny thing how people we admire from afar are never who we expected them to be) and all Barry could do was roll his eyes to it. There was no humour in any of it for him, not without Iris. But he could sense a genuine admiration for Iris coming from Cisco, which he most definitively shared. And as far as their sex life went it was nobody’s business anyway, that was between Iris and him. And their bedroom walls. And their kitchen and bathroom and living room walls, and maybe his lab and a closet or two at CCPD if he was being completely honest, but they were never caught anyway so it didn’t matter.

That was about when Iris walked in. She had always had a confidence he would never be able to reach. Something that embarrassed him when they first started dating, got him in a loop a couple of times, thinking that he should have been the one to ask her out and take the lead. That until he realised that she liked leading and he liked following so they were actually perfectly matched. 

(And he got to propose, so that actually compensated on the fact that on their first date he seemed to be completely incapable of putting words into sentences — and she still liked him somehow.)

She pointed her armed hand at Wells and Cisco now and before they were able to say anything she ordered them to leave so she could talk to Barry privately;

“So”, she started once they were alone; “Barry from yesterday was not you?”

“No”, he confirmed, shaking his head, and he knew she was unsettle, disconcert even, by that. She proud herself on her intuition and someone had actually been able to convince her they were her husband. 

Barry was trying not to dwell too much on the fact that she had fallen for it. 

It was particularly scary because he had always believed that either of them, in a position like that, would have been able to notice. But on the other hand it was a bit amusing to see Iris’ face when realisation truly hit her, when with his confirmation she actually believed in what she had been told. The amusement didn’t last though, not when the possibilities of what that could mean hit  _him,_  taking a quickly horrifying turn;

“Oh, god, did you have sex with him?”

She actually looked offended by it, which, _you know_ , he thought,  _good_. 

“Barry! No! I think I would have noticed  _that_!”

“I don’t know”, he tried to justify; “how can I know? Did you kiss?”

She avoided his eyes and that was never a good sign, but it took no probing, she offered voluntarily;

“Yeah. Just a little kiss — or you know, three, and he definitively saw me undressing —”

And then he wanted to kick himself to make it seem like some kind of accusation.

“It doesn’t matter”, he assured her. He could sense her breaking down, blaming herself, doubting herself, and the one thing he was good at was keeping her grounded so he had to keep his anger and jealousy at bay to do so. None of it was her fault, so he pulled her into his lap and said;

“It’s ok, it’s all right.”

She nuzzled into his neck, her nose and lips found their favourite path and he relaxed under it.

“I’m so sorry about your dad”, he said. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

“It’s ok. I’m glad you’re here now.”

She cradled his head, fingers on his neck, her warm hands guiding him to her, and when their lips met he put all of himself into it, hoping to erase any other Barrys that could possibly come her way and when she pulled away with a little smile he couldn’t control the laughter bursting out of him, some of it was relief that she was there at arms reach again, but mostly it was the fact that he was going out of his mind of jealousy of another version of himself. 

He took a deep breath, calming himself down and trying to think things through and finally suggesting;  

“I think we should help them.”

She looked at him quizzically;

“You do?”  

He figured she was probably expecting having to convince him, but Cisco had told him that this other Barry had probably saved Iris’ life more than once last night so, he could still exercise on his pettiness while being grateful.

“If you, out of all people, didn’t notice he wasn’t me then he can’t be all that bad, can he?”, he justified it, more to himself than to her.

She graced him with her sweet, vulnerable smile when she answered him;

“He’s very much like you.”

“Then let’s send him back to his Iris. Cause, I mean, if he kisses my wife again I might have to kill him”, he tilted his head, just to make a point, “and I don’t think his Iris would appreciate that very much.”

“So you are willing to help him for his Iris?”, she had a mocking smile on her lips but that was the rationalisation he was going with anyway.

“Pretty much, yeah. I mean I hate his guts, but I couldn’t do that to Iris.”

She laughed, agreeing with him, suggesting this other Iris would probably travel through worlds just to hunt him down if he did kill her Barry, but his Iris didn’t move out of his lap, so he kept his hands on her, appreciating the feel of her, as she granted him another kiss.


	2. Skirts vs Pants

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written after "Welcome to Earth 2"

Iris is in a long dress, her hair down, which never happens at work, and the dress’ skirt, dancing around her thighs, has a deep cut that exposes a hint of her skin as she walks into his lab and Barry forgets where he is, and what Iris is doing in that outfit in the first place. If he’s being completely honest it would probably take a while to remember his own name with his heart beating that fast (he has no problem remembering hers though) and he’s about ready to force himself to look away, his mind taking him to completely indecent places, naked places, when he recalls being married to her, which means he has at least a partial permission to the fantasy happening it his head right about now, one that involves the dress being on and then taken off, slowly, partially, revealing her perfect curves while still touching their skin, so he allows himself to enjoy it.

  
Once he manages to bring his eyes back to her face (in his defence she’s definitively wearing a new bra cause he has never noticed her cleavage quite like that, and he should know) she’s studying his face, eyebrows raised questioningly as she asks;

“What?”

He blinks himself out of this haze to let her know she looks very nice, that he likes the dress, to which her answer is that he already knew she had gone undercover that afternoon;

“It’s the dress I wore for the cabaret”, and when he doesn’t respond, unable to tear his eyes from her boobs, she tries again; “For the undercover investigation.”

Yes, it was. He had seen the dress hanging on their closet door but he hadn’t seen it on her yet, and boy, did that make all the difference. The navy blue shining against her skin and the tule transparence on the bust, the thin straps, slightly falling out of place. Plus it hugged her waist and hips perfectly so, and the little peek it gave of her soft left thigh was really doing it for him.

“Did you get the guy?”, he manages to ask but she’s walking towards him predatorily and he had already forgotten his question when her “ _yep”_  reaches his ear. 

“So, you like the dress?” she asks, fixing his bow tie in place.

“I do.”

“You know, I had to get a new bra to wear with it, it had to be strapless.”

“Oh”, he swallows and his answer sounds way more dreamy than he had planned for it to be.

“Do you wanna see it?”, she offers, a naughty shine in her eyes.

He nods, looking at her boobs from a slightly different perspective now she’s plastered to him. He holds her by the waist taking her off the ground and placing her sitting on his desk, right in front of him. She giggles at it, her hands combing his hair back before her lips finally meet his for a kiss. Her legs pull him closer, her feet (in the fucking fuck-me-heels) in his ass, and his hands slip under her skirt, feeling her warm skin, and god, she should always wear skirts to work. After he has the idea he actually prides himself in its brilliance so he shares it with her;

“You should always wear skirts to work.”

“They are not very practical”, she smiles in his lips, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, moving his glasses out of place with the path her nose makes on his cheek.

“I’m finding them pretty practical”, he argues, sliding his hands further up and padding his fingers over her panties to build his case. 

It was probably a little pathetic that he could guess the pair she was wearing just by the feel of the lace but he really liked that one so he didn’t mind very much. Her tongue in his mouth muffle any additional verbal points he had on  _skirts vs pants_ , and even though he could appreciate her ass on the pants the skirt had him sold completely the second it facilitated him drawing the little moans coming out of her throat. 

Before he could test how easy would it be to slid the lace fabric aside though he heard his name being called and Iris closed her legs by his right side, knocking him on the process, and turned him to the door, her hands on his arms, keeping him in place so to half block her from the view of whomever was walking in on them, which was rather inconsiderate seeing as he was the one with the visible sign of what they were doing down his pants.

It turned out to be Deadshot (Barry thinks that right about now he deserves the nickname), who after complaining about witnessing too much PDA between Barry and Iris asks if he has any of the lab results from the scene from this morning.

“Un — I — the tests — the results you need, I mean, some of them take twenty-four hours. Sorry.”

Lawton rolls his eyes at him and says;

“Whatever. Your husband is too slow, West. I’m going home”, he was half through the door when he decided to turn back and add; “And you’ve got spit on your chin, Allen.”

Barry turns to Iris once Lawton is gone, and the offended face he was planning on offering her in response to her hasty behaviour when she heard someone at the door, fell when he saw the smile on her lips and the urge to undress her came back in full force.

“We should go home too”, she tells him.

“Yeah, home”, Barry agrees.


	3. When in Atlantis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written after "Escape from Earth 2"

Barry wakes up to Iris twisting and turning. It had been some rough couple of days. She had to yet fully process the fact that she no longer had her dad there, he was sure of it, and sleeping on a different bed wasn’t exactly facilitating the night either. After the craziest 48 hours of their lives they had hastily packed, locked the door, and caught a flight, during which she had spend most of her time silently crying on his chest, to Atlantis. Now, thanks to Zoom, besides Joseph dying, they had to deal with the fact that it felt like loosing their home as well, and with that unrelenting powerlessly feeling, that he couldn’t just make everything better for her no matter how much he wished for it.

Iris’ mom was the one to pick them up in the airport. Barry and Iris were fully expecting staying at a hotel, at least for a couple of weeks, but Francine had somehow managed to find them an apartment in record time, to which Barry was immensely grateful. He usually hated hotels, things were always out of place on those, it was impossible to keep it properly organised, even on the fancy ones they wouldn’t have been able to afford anyway, and the apartment was nice, minimal furniture and in a clinically clean state, which after spending his days in messy crime scenes and analysing dejects samples it was something crucial for his sanity.  

Iris was weary of it though.  _“You didn’t have to do that, mom”._  The reason for it had nothing to do with the apartment, it didn’t even take the glance he threw her way for him to know what was on her mind. Iris had always felt that being thankful for Francine, glad she had her, appreciative of something she had done, was somehow betraying Joseph. It must have been hurting even more with his death hoovering over her. Francine had left Iris, Wally and Joseph before Barry met Iris, moving to Atlantis so she could fully be the theatre actress she was, when Iris was six. 

Iris would mostly refuse to discuss any of it though. Her mom or how it felt having her leave. The reasons she had to leave. The fact that it hadn’t taken much for Barry to realise that Joseph thought his career as a singer was more important then Francine’s as an actress, or the fact that throughout most of her life Iris’ parents pretty much refused to spend time in the same room together (the only exceptions Barry had witness had been both of Iris’ graduation, Wally’s high school graduation, and their wedding). 

Barry remembered the first time Iris had told him about Francine perfectly, so much so that if he closed his eyes he could feel Iris besides him, mumbling the words. He had sneaked her into his home that day, and she had decided without so much as asking she would spend the night in his bed (not that he would ever had any complains). They were friends back then, and in the dark of his room, under his blankets, cold still emanating from her because of the midnight walk from her house to his, Iris had talked about some of it, half leaving things unsaid, delicately, like it was a secret, her guilt and her unresolved feelings on the subject coming out of her in a whisper, like she couldn’t help sharing it with him. It was the first time he had been sure she felt it too, the importance they had, would have, in each other’s lives, and there, in his room on his parent’s house in the middle of a November night, when he was only 17, he knew he would marry the girl he hadn’t even kissed yet. Would never want to marry anyone else.

He met Francine the following summer, frightened to his teeth of having to spend a whole month at her place, expecting he would have to deal with someone a bit like Joseph, disapproving and sharp but Francine was extremely soft and accepting, and since then, whenever Barry would tell Iris that Francine was nice, Iris would say to him  _she gets to be nice cause it is the one that does the raising that has to be tough_.

Barry knew exactly why Iris always sided with her dad: she was a loyal creature and therefore she valued loyalty above almost anything else. She thought leaving was a sign of weakness and Iris refused to be anything like her mom, but sometimes, when they were alone, and she would let her guard down, he could see Francine in her just as much as he saw Joseph.

Now he was more grateful for Francine than he had ever been. The small, recently vacant, apartment that belonged to someone she knew wasn’t much compared to their house, but it was enough for the two of them, better than any alternative his brain had come up with. But what he was really grateful for was the way she had hugged Iris really tight and promised her;

“After all of this is over we’ll host a really nice memorial, baby girl.”

Making Iris’ shoulder relax a little under the hug. Letting go of some of the guilt he knew she was holding on to.

Later, when Iris was in the shower and Francine was helping Barry unpack some of the stuff they had managed to bring (mostly clothes and linens and towels and toiletries), and organise the groceries she had bought for them in the kitchen cabinets, she had asked;

“Has she had a good cry yet?”

“Yeah, she did, it wasn’t the most pleasant flight but I think she’ll feel better now.”

She smiled thoughtfully at him, probably seeing through some of his worries and guaranteed him;

“You’re sweet boy, Barry, and you two love each other. It will go back to normal and you’ll be fine.”

He didn’t know how. Didn’t fully believed in it. Expecting for things to change, at least a little, between them. Not some dramatic change, but a change nonetheless, like they had changed after moving in together or after starting to work together, like they had changed after their first time or after that damn unsolvable case they worked together on. But this was different now, heavier somehow.  

What was really bothering him though was that Iris hadn’t kissed him once since it all happened. He didn’t want to be the one starting any of it, it would feel too much like disrespect. He was telling himself that it wouldn’t be that bad, she wasn’t jumping away from him, she was actually reaching, pretty similarly to what she usually did, but he missed her lips on his, grounding him down at the same time that they would bring him to his toes.  

He hadn’t had to wait much though. When they were both brushing their teeth for bed that night Iris, with no words, holding her toothbrush still, after rinsing it off, backed him up against the wall, toothpaste on his lips, and kissed him slowly. Her hand on his neck, holding him in place, in the bathroom that still smelled like her shampoo, sucking on his lip, licking it and then darting her tongue into his mouth, moving it slowly and warm and wet against his. And she tasted the same she always did, and her lips moved against his, the same pattern that they had always assumed, at the same pace she would take whenever she was tired or sad or both. And then he actually believed in it. Like it was proof somehow, like if they could kiss the same then they would go back into being the same.

It was all it was though, one kiss against the bathroom wall. But she was wearing one of his undershirts, paired with her navy blue cotton panties and nothing else, and in bed, with them facing each other and Iris rubbing her legs on his, it made it easy for him to slip his hands under the t-shirt, way too big for her, and feel the warmth of her skin and blindly trace her birth marks: one above the right boob, the heart shaped one over her left hipbone, the one on her right bun cheek, until she fell asleep, and he enjoyed how in his arms, in his clothes, in their bed, she felt more like his.

Now, wakening up to Iris trashing around to the nightmare she was so clearly having he hesitated on whether or not to call her up. She needed the sleep, but having a bad dream wasn’t exactly resting. So he softly whispers her name and she opens her eyes to it, looking around, searching for something familiar to hold on to, before focusing on his voice and finding his eyes;

“Barry.”

She reaches for his hair, brushing it away from his forehead, bringing both hands up to cradle his face, pulling him even closer and placing a soft little kiss on his lips, as to make sure he’s real, so he tells her;

“It was just a bad dream.”

She faces the ceiling and there are tears in her eyes, they fall down slowly, shyly even, on the sides of her beautiful face, reaching the neck, as she flutters her lids open and close, and he tries kissing the tears away, reassuring her;

“I’m here. I’m right here.”

She sakes her head and tells him;

“You never came home, you never came home and the only explanation I could find for it was that you were dead too. I can’t loose you. I can’t.”

She kisses him again, open mouthed, teeth colliding, and full of wanting, and pulls him over her, aligning herself underneath him, her legs opened so he can fit between them, hips rocking just right, and they always fit together, in the right places. Even though she’s so tiny and he towers over her their bodies somehow match, predicting each other’s movement and still capable of surprising, and now he holds most of his weight off of her as she slips her hands under his boxers, palming him, her fingers padding the length of it to the tip, circling it with her thumb just so and then tugging the piece of clothing with her free hand and then with her feet the rest of the way down his legs and he asks her;  

“Yeah?”

And all he needs is her little curt nod in response.

He reaches for her panties, pulling it out in a haste trying not to move away from her body more than strictly necessary, bringing her legs up so he can take them off completely, and she squirms, searching for him in the momentary absence. He lets his hands travel up her soft legs, making sure she’s ready, before he slips into her, breathing her in and Iris props herself up, pulling his bottom lip between her teeth, letting go with a hot exhale and a soft moan, and Barry stills for a second, looking into her deep warm eyes full of need and yearning, before he gives into the desperation again, trying to reach for her lips with his, but her hand gripping on the hair in the nape of his neck hold him in place, and it’s only when the hand travels down his spine, the sharp red nails digging into the skin of his small back, then of his butt cheeks, that he could move to kiss her, instead he watches her still, eyes wide open, matching hers, her lips parted and her face stiff in pleasure and she keeps him close, locking his legs with hers, and grabbing him by the chin Iris pulls him to a kiss, and like this, in this moment, she’s his, just his, his wife, and the world falls back into it’s blurred (by the lack of glasses and by the warmth of pleasure) place. The place it was always supposed to be, and ironically, it’s when he’s grasping for breath, shortened by desire and fulfilment all at once, that he can breath again.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my tumblr iriswestthings


End file.
